7 AM

You wake with the startling realization that you are out of coffee.

It is 7 AM on Saturday morning, and at least the roads will be empty and you’ll be able to park close to the nearest Starbucks, right by the university. At any other time of day, it would be a madhouse, and you’d have to park behind the gas station a block down the road.

One benefit to having a hairline that’s less than what it was when you were in college is the excuse it gives you to switch to a buzzcut. This allows you to wake up at 7 AM on Saturday morning and leave the house without having to worry about applying “product” to your hair the way you used to, just to look presentable.

The day is beautiful, 47 degrees, the sun shining. The windows and sunroof are open and the wind whips through the car as you drive through suburbia. You tune the radio to the station you used to listen to in college. It’s still a rock station. Not everything they play is horrible. You hear a song the station used to play over a decade ago when you were still in school.

It doesn’t seem old.

Hivelogic turned four in February of this year. You’d already been “blogging” on another site (long gone) for more than three years before that. You have been making both personal and professional websites for over 11 years now.

This is hard to believe.

Many people visiting Hivelogic have no idea how long it’s been around, and congratulate you on your new site, letting you know that you need to post more often if you want people to visit frequently. This is how you build an audience, they say. You think back to the days of Hivelogic’s popularity, back when you had a desktop gallery, gave away anti-spam email obfuscation tools, and teased your audience of ten-thousand readers with talk of the CMS you were developing, to be released ? real soon.

The other day, you were chatting with your friend John Gruber, the author of Daring Fireball, reminiscing about how the landscape of the web has changed and where it’s going. “Hivelogic used to be great,” he said, “Then you walked away from it all. Like the Beatles.”

You park in a spot directly in front of the Starbucks and go inside. You buy a pound of beans and a grande coffee, black.

Waiting at the stoplight, you gaze down the road to the right, toward the university where you met your wife eleven years ago, the apartments where you lived as a student, the street where you worked your first professional job.

The light changes and you head the opposite way, toward the house where you now live and work, into the heart of suburban life.

The coffee spills a little as you turn.

You turn off the radio and drive the rest of the way in silence, listening to the wind whip through the windows of the car.

While you drive, your wife feeds the cats their breakfast, ending their daily pre-breakfast rampage. It’s your turn, but she’s pinch hitting. One of them – the boy, your cat – now needs prescriptive food and requires subcutaneous fluid injections to help slow the degeneration of his kidneys, a disease with no cure that will, hopefully not too soon, end his life.

As you pull into the driveway, you can see that the grass is starting to green up very nicely, the plants starting to really take root and grow. Winter is almost over, you can feel it, and spring is near.

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